


Passion Like Glass

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: One Shot, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-02
Updated: 2006-01-02
Packaged: 2019-01-19 16:21:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12413673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: What does romance look like from the perspective of a young woman having an affair with an older, married man? Pansy Parkinson takes a good look at herself and learns that love does not always mean happy endings.





	Passion Like Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

"Tramp," hisses Draco when he steps out into the hall and sees me standing there, buttoning my long coat, preparing to go. His eyes narrow, bright silver filigree becoming flat grey like the surface of the lake on an afternoon with no wind. There are no ripples in the surface of his pure hate as his eyes travel my body, taking in all and searching for whatever treasure his father uncovered in me that he can never find. "Scarlet woman," he adds, the archaic comment trailing from his mouth like an arrow shot from his bowed lips, but Lucius's hand settles on my shoulder and the arrow does not pierce, does not hurt, does not find me. It falls flat, the way Draco's insults never do at school, hitting on the smooth shield that is Lucius and bouncing back without drawing blood. Menacing, sneering, he retreats to his bedroom, slamming the door. The dull, heavy sound echoes throughout the manor, which feels empty and chilly even to me, the way it always does in Narcissa's absence. She is the light, the glow, the heat; I sneak in when she goes out, offering brief, flaring warmth that dies a steady death under Draco's frozen glare. 

Ignoring his son, Lucius turns to me, wraps my white and green scarf tighter about my neck like an attentive parent, no longer a lover, as if I am still five and Draco's best friend come to play for an afternoon. I am here, in his house, but we no longer speak. I find myself wishing the Christmas holidays would never end as Lucius bows his head and kisses my forehead, brushing my hair out of the way. If Christmas lingered, snow crunching cold underfoot, freezing fingers, turning my lips to blue during the long walk home, I would never have to return to Hogwarts, and Draco would never get the chance he is waiting for. I see it in his eyes now, as he opens the door a crack and stares out, watching me over his father's bent shoulder, eyes smoldering, wanting to hit me, curse me, kiss me at the same time. I fear for my safety when the holiday ends and we return to school as dutiful students, children supposedly virgin, innocent of all this intrigue, unaware of jealousy like a lingering burn or the scent of musk that will not leave my hair no matter how many times I bathe. 

Blinking up at Lucius, my throat closes against the words I want so badly to whisper. To my surprise, he says them for me. "I love you, Pansy" he declares, loud enough that Draco can hear the elegant flow of the syllables and close his door with a click. Lucius's voice is smooth now, supple like suede, as gentle and firm as his hands which have never seen a day of hard labour and likely never will. So different from the way he utters that brief phrase in bed, when I am pinned below him, my hands steadily going numb from the grip he keeps on my wrists. In the bedroom chamber, where Narcissa's floral perfume floats in the air like a phantom reminder of his betrayal and my indecency, Lucius's voice is a snarl, his throat hoarse as if the words are being torn from deep within him, dragged out reluctantly by will and not meaning. As he slides his body over mine, hands roving, hair brushing my face as his lips touch mine, he breathes the words in a voice passionate and flavoured like mint. Eyes closed as if in prayer he dips his head and makes me all the promises in the world, his voice pained and needing, nothing like the bland, serious voice with which he addresses his son or the dismissive, annoyed way he speaks of his wife. 

Biting my lip, a brief good-bye, I accept Lucius's final kiss, his breath still hot and desirous, warming me before I step outside. I can feel the marks he has left on my neck, faint bruises, red declarations that I am his, symbols of his ownership of the property that is me, Pansy, a once little girl now a sixteen year old woman, sophisticated, bidding adieu to a lover. The sore heat of his kisses lingers and I feel bitten, consumed alive by the need of Lucius. 

Sometimes, leaving, I wish Narcissa would come home early and catch me like this, lingering in the doorway, Lucius's hands closed over mine as if to warm my pale fingers, his eyes glazed like a man in a trance. She would know then what she has lost and what I have gained, but at the same time I fear her discovery. Narcissa, a second mother to me, taking over when my own neglectful parents left off. I remember the feel of her hands in my hair as she plaited the strands, smiling, humming a tune under her breath. I felt like her daughter, twin to her son, Draco like a brother as he grabbed my hand and hauled me off to watch him fly or join him in a game of tormenting the nanny. Back then her perfume was a comfort, the warm smell of a woman I wanted badly to grow up to be. 

With a start I realise I have; I have Narcissa's husband pressed against me, his hands reaching under the coat for something only I can give him. Who is she now, my mother or my competition? I have become a contender, a traitor in her household, a little lamb she took in who revealed herself a wolf. Lucius's mouth tastes like my blood and I realise I have bitten my lip too sharply. He drinks it in and we become one, and there is no more time to look back. I'm sorry, Narcissa, I think, as Lucius presses me up against the wall, his lust reviving with startling speed. I never meant for this to happen. 

Had I had the opportunity to choose my first lover, it would not have been Lucius. He is too much, far too much for a girl still in school, a grown man with a grown man's desire, a field of quicksand sucking me down, overpowering like the smell of his cologne and the heat in his eyes when he looks my way. I would have chosen a boy my age, maybe Draco himself, who paces his room in silent frustration, his fingernails clawing into his fist as he listens to the sound of his father kissing a girl his age and hears the sounds of his family falling apart. My first lover should have approached me with a delicate touch, a shy gaze, hopeful and wanting, not the way Lucius did the first time, ignoring my protests and sipping the tears I cried, a man whose thirst could not be sated. Not his body over mine, crushing against my ribs, awakening me to an adult passion when I had never before experienced anything beyond a brief, flirtatious kiss. I would have chosen love notes and stolen moments in the hallways, whispering with my friends, giggling openmouthed as my crush walked by, but Lucius stepped in, his body blocking the path to that daydream of schoolgirl perfection, dragging me by the hair to the black sheets of his bed, through the tangles of lies and bitter promises on my tongue. Who would have thought Lucius, man of light, could lead me into so much darkness. 

"I have to go," I say, stepping back, drawing a hand across my mouth like a child wiping away the reddish aftertaste of soda. My lip is still bleeding, a faint sting, but only a little, staining my lower lip bloody scarlet. I can taste him too, the taste of Lucius's kisses, like peppermint and honey and Firewhiskey, something darker, perhaps desire, and I wet my lips as if to wash myself clean. When I go home I will draw a hot bath and soak for hours, floating in the netherworld between the flaring power that makes me stand straighter and the crumbling sensation of my sorrow, my regret. This is why it's wrong, why it should have been a boy with eyes wide as a child's instead of Lucius, grown, untamed, because he makes me weak and broken, a tower of passion like glass crashing down, shaking with bewilderment. My lover, I cannot speak his name, not to Millicent, not to Blaise, never to my own parents who have begun hinting about my prospects on marriage upon leaving school, their interest reviving now that they believe I am coming of age. How can I tell them I have known the rippling of a man's stomach against my own, the hot, pressure bearing down as he enters me, larger then life itself? Draco should not be jealous of this. I feel possessed, invaded, yet so willingly I have returned on occasions too many to count, seeking redemption in Lucius's kisses, the safety of his arms encircling my body. It is a mixed up blend of feelings; love, hope, desire countered by weighty guilt and the childish feeling of needing to cry and be held while I weep. 

Closing the door behind me, I go forth, away from the manor. Two sets of eyes watch me take my leave. Lucius peers through the front window, his face stoic and calm as he watches me walk through the whitish winter light, remembering my touch, the fading heat of my body against his skin. Draco watches as well, his pale face frozen in a hurt scowl as he stares balefully, his mind a blur of conflicting thoughts as he follows my progress. 

As for me, I concentrate on picking my way through snowdrifts, the stunning coldness of the air pricking my eyes and bringing tears that blur my path. Overhead, the snowflakes fall, covering my hair in a frozen, pristine veil of white. I can feel Lucius's hands on my breasts as if he has left an imprint of himself on my skin and feel a brief thrill of desire at the memory, but mostly I shiver, the hands that an hour ago unbuttoned his expensive trousers slowly going cold. This is the life I have bought for myself, having paid with my innocence, having given my all. The fight a year ago seems distant past, a daydream, a story I read in a book somewhere. It could not be me, the willing vixen, wily tramp, snake in the grass, who was a year ago innocent and pure, shrinking back with a shriek from Lucius's sudden lunge. It was not my lips, twisted with revulsion, that were kissed by a predator with hair like ivory silk. No, I am the one who has returned willingly, spread rose petals on the bed for him, learned new tricks to make him smile, promised my love in breathless declarations. I have given myself over to him, for all the good and all the bad, and nothing, not the sharp slap across my face I will receive when Draco confronts me next, not the disturbed stares of the girls in my dorm when Draco tells them, not the smirking advances of the boys who will claim to know my kind, nothing can take it back.


End file.
